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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27228055">And A Crown Of Silver For His Head</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitsdoitbetter/pseuds/hobbitsdoitbetter'>hobbitsdoitbetter</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Anal Play, Begging, Dirty Talk, Dominance, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Loving Marriage, Pegging, Praise Kink, Sexy Times, Shameless Smut, Swearing, Woman on Top, male submission</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 21:13:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,197</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27228055</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitsdoitbetter/pseuds/hobbitsdoitbetter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Lady Anthea has declared a holiday for everyone- including her darling husband. The servants are gone, the doors are locked...</p><p>And since she has her riding crop at the ready, who is Mycroft to refuse her?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Anthea/Mycroft Holmes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>And A Crown Of Silver For His Head</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Suggested by a wee chat with the gorgeous OhAine</p><hr/><p>
  <b>A CROWN OF SILVER FOR HIS HEAD</b>
</p><hr/><p>
  <em> London,  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Mayfair, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> 1897 </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Mycroft knows what she’s about as soon as he sees the butler. </p><p>The butler, singular, who opens the door to his home. Who takes his coat, refusing steadfastly to meet his eye. Who appears to wish he were anywhere else, other than in his master’s hallway. There’s not a single other servant about, no footman or maid, no indication that the cook, ladies’ maid or even housekeeper are still in the building- </p><p>“Her ladyship has declared a holiday?” Mycroft asks mildly, to which the butler- with slightly reddened cheeks- nods. Shuffles his feet. </p><p>He knows precisely what this phrase really means- <em> After all, it’s not the first time Anthea has done this </em>. </p><p>“Yes, m’lud,” he says stiffly. He clears his throat. “Her ladyship asked that you be sent up to her parlour as soon as you got home.”</p><p>And again the man clears his throat, shuffles his feet. Beneath his jacket and waistcoat, beneath his vest and shirt, Mycroft’s heart starts to thump in excitement. Anticipation. He reaches his thumb out, gently caressing the gold of his wedding band, fingers tracing the familiar raised letters there. <em> MINE,</em> they spell. <b> <em>MINE.</em></b></p><p><em> He is hers, </em> he thinks. <em> Hers and nobody else’s.  </em></p><p>It is at this moment that he becomes aware of his cock hardening in his smalls. </p><p>Red comes to his cheeks then, though he might not wish to admit it. His pulse is elevated too, jittery. Excitement buzzes through his veins like champagne. “That will be all, Marsden,” he says haughtily, trying his best to sound calm. Authoritative. Not the least bit like the eager, helplessly wanton creature he knows himself to be. “Take the night off and visit your mother,” he intones, “it will not be taken from your wages-”</p><p>“Very good, sir.” </p><p>And the butler nods, moving towards the door to the kitchens. “Enjoy your evening, sir,” he says, sotto voce, before darting through the baize door and away.</p><p>He won’t meet Mycroft’s eye. </p><p>Judging by the speed with which he’s moving, one would think the devil herself were on his tail and at this thought Mycroft smiles, takes a deep breath. He closes his eyes, tries to centre himself. His heart is throbbing in his chest, his cock hardening in his trousers- </p><p>“Husband.”</p><p>The voice- his wife’s- comes from the top of the stairs and immediately he turns towards her. Opens his eyes. She looks magnificent, all white silk and pale flesh. Corset, stockings, opera gloves, slippers, everything is just so. <em> Even the riding crop in her hand is covered in white silk. </em> Her hair is dressed, piled atop her head and she is dripping with diamonds and pearls, with every gaudy, expensive, unpersuasive bauble her other, <em> former </em> suitors ever bought her… </p><p>And yet, it is him, Mycroft Holmes, that her eyes rest on. </p><p>Him, Mycroft Holmes, that she married and took into her bed. </p><p>As if she can tell where his thoughts have taken him she crooks a finger at her husband, a filthy, gorgeous, cat-like smile curling her lip- </p><p>“I have a present for you,” she says and Mycroft gulps. Nods. </p><p>
  <em> Mere words cannot express how much he loves Anthea’s presents.  </em>
</p><p>Without being told he removes his jacket, his waistcoat. His cravat and collar. He dumps them in a pile at the side of the stairs, knowing the servants will see it as soon as they return and guess what he did. </p><p>
  <em> He doesn’t care.  </em>
</p><p>Rather he rolls up his sleeves, just as Anthea likes him to, and moves towards the third step from the floor. Kneels on it. </p><p>That too is something she likes to see him doing. </p><p>Hips swaying, eyes alight, Anthea glides down the staircase to stand over him, predatory as a pagan goddess before a sacrifice. </p><p>“My, but you’re obedient,” she coos. Reaching down she takes his chin in her hand, tips his face up towards hers. The tip of the riding crop ghosts over his lips and as he wants to- as he has been taught to- Mycroft kisses it. Leans forward. His forehead meets the warmed silk of Anthea’s corset and he closes his eyes. Sighs in bliss. </p><p>He loves the feeling of her fingers, curling through his hair so gently. </p><p>“That’s my darling boy,” she whispers. “That’s my beautiful husband.” But even as he sighs in contentment her fingers curl, tug his hair. She yanks his head back and kisses him sharply. Hungrily. She bites his lip and he moans, knowing that it makes him sound like a whore but unable to make himself care about it-  </p><p>“Look at me,” she snaps, and of course he opens his eyes. Of course he obeys her. </p><p>Anthea steps back, eyes him knowingly. That sharp, cat-like smile is back and there’s a light in her gaze that another man might find frightening.</p><p>It just makes Mycroft’s prick harder.  </p><p>“Strip,” she says, “You’re no use to me when you're wearing so many clothes.” </p><p>And she turns her back on him. Saunters back up the stairs. Her round, lush arse sways with each step, a promise of pleasures to come. Heart hammering, mouth dry, Mycroft hastily pulls off his shirt, his shoes and socks. His trousers. Each is tossed at the foot of the stairs, the evidence of his debasement. His obeisance. <em> Again he is reminded that the servants will know; again he thinks that he does not care. </em> The last thing he removes are his smalls, carefully pulling them down and over his cock, trying not to disturb it- <em> It’s now so hard it’s painful-  </em></p><p>When he’s done and naked he feels the urge to cover himself. Never having been the beauty of the family, he has likewise never had the urge to preen or show off. <em> There is nothing at all of the peacock about him- At least, not in carnal matters. </em> When he moves to hide his cock though Anthea barks at him to stop. Gestures for him to come to her. He steps onto the staircase and again she barks a refusal. </p><p>“You know better than that,” she says slyly. </p><p>Mycroft is forced to admit that he does. <em>So-  </em></p><p>Naked, abashed, he gets on his knees. </p><p>Naked, abashed, he crawls up the stairs until he’s right in front of her and then slowly, slowly, at her nod he stands. </p><p>She flicks the riding crop out when he moves to cover himself again. </p><p>“I want to see my property,” she says sharply. And, holding eye contact, she slides the leather tongue of the crop over the ruddy, hardened flesh of his cock, caressing it. Flicking the leather lightly against it. The blows makes it bob obscenely against his belly. His thighs. She strokes the hard ridge of the keeper along the edge of his bollocks and it feels bloody <em> delicious. </em> </p><p> “That’s far too beautiful for you to hide,” she tells him softly. </p><p>Mycroft tells himself that tears do not prick his eyes at her words. “So you like what you see?” he asks, swallowing. He bows his head, looks away. The words are hard to get out but he still needs to say them.  “You don’t think it’s filthy? Base and wrong and-?”</p><p>Again she tips his chin up to face her. “I love to see it,” she says firmly and this time when she steps close to him she kisses him gently. Softly. “There’s nothing filthy or wrong about you, my love.” </p><p>Her thumb strokes along his cheek, his lip, and they sigh in unison.  </p><p>Mycroft closes his eyes then. His body loosening, easing into the role he plays for her. Bare to the air, bereft of his usual props, he feels free. Grounded. <em> Whole.</em> “May I-?” And he doesn’t finish the sentence, merely takes himself in hand. Slides his fingers carefully, gingerly down his length. Drops of his seed are already wetting his cock’s head and he smears them against the skin, just as she has taught him to. </p><p>When he looks at Anthea now, he could swear her gaze might immolate him. </p><p>“Christ,” she breathes, and, “Christ darling, but I want to fuck you.”</p><p>“Christ, sweet, but I want you to fuck me too.”</p><p>She takes in a tight breath through her nose at that. Nods sharply. Her hand moves down to press against her mound, her tongue darting out to wet her lip. Another kiss, openmouthed, their tongues sliding like velvet against one another. Another kiss and she pulls him close, her warmth, her sweetness, blazing against his bare chest. She pulls her breasts free and brings his mouth to them. He licks and nips and suckles, nuzzles their soft flesh. Again Mycroft feels it, that pleasure in being the one on whom she centres her desires, to whom she shows her best, most true self- </p><p>
  <em> Nothing else in his life has ever made him feel so humble, or so lucky.  </em>
</p><p>“Should I- Do you want me to-?” Again the words are stumbling, their lack of clarity embarrassing. His tongue feels thick in his mouth. What he wants to say is that he’ll come all over himself if she thinks that would please her- <em> God knows it wouldn’t be the first time she’s had him frag himself into oblivion in front of her, nor will it be the last.</em> But before he can get those words out he feels her hand at his wrist, opens his eyes to see her shake her head at him.</p><p> “The plans I have for you can’t come to fruition out here.” An impish smile. “There’s not nearly enough room to play.”</p><p>And so she leads him up one flight, then another. He comes as quietly as a lamb. Finally she takes him into her dressing room and sets him sitting on her bed. There’s a fire burning in the hearth and a meal for two has been set before it. A large rectangular box lies on her dressing table, an elaborately decorated perfume bottle sitting beside it. Anthea walks over to the bottle, opens it. She pours some sweet, golden-coloured liquid onto her hands, warming them together, and gestures to the box. </p><p>“Aren’t you interested in your present?” she asks him coquettishly, eyes devilish. </p><p>She dribbles a thin stream of oil over the box’s contents. </p><p>Aroused, confused, Mycroft walks to her dressing table and looks into the box. Inside he sees an elegant leather phallus, double ended. Thin. It has been set in a whalebone and leather harness, though it appears it may be removed if needed for more… inventive play. His and Anthea’s initials are embroidered into the leather, the oil she has poured on it making the letters glisten. Gleam. </p><p>“Oh,” is what he says. </p><p><em> Oh fuck, yes please,  </em>is what he means. </p><p>Apparently Anthea understands as much. “As soon as I saw it,” she whispers, “I knew I would use it on you.” She licks her lip. “If there’s anyone who deserves it, it would be you, my darling boy.”</p><p>And she lifts the phallus, brings it to his lips. After a moment he opens up and suckles it. Hollows his cheeks as he has seen her do when she uses her mouth on him. </p><p>Mycroft tries to be calm, tries to hold onto his arousal. <em> He’ll be so ashamed of himself if he comes right now. </em> Nevertheless, when he sees Anthea pick up the bottle and pour some more of its contents onto her palms he lets out a low moan. She slides her wet hands up and down the phallus shaft, forcing it further into his mouth and he can’t help himself, he has to take his prick in hand. Has to rut roughly against his fingers, his breath coming in pants. He’d <em> told </em> Anthea the things he dreamed. The things he wanted her to do to him. Him on his knees, her fucking him from behind. Him on his knees, his mouth filled with the sweet flesh of her breasts, her cunt. <em> These are the things that fill his mind when nobody is around and oh but he is glad that she is willing to indulge him… </em> </p><p>He feels her heat behind him then. </p><p>She pulls the phallus from between his lips with a filthy, gorgeous pop. </p><p>“That’s enough fun for you,” she tells him severely. She sets the toy back into its harness, then starts putting the harness on. It doesn’t take her long, all she has to do is remove her drawers and slip it between her legs. Secure it snugly to her corset and deep within herself. Their eyes meet in her mirror as she works, her fingers dancing against the flesh of his backside; he feels the length of leather bat against his thigh once again as she presses against his shoulder, pushing him forward. </p><p>Her thumb slides upwards towards the puckering hole of his anus as he obeys. </p><p>“It’s no wider than the last plug we played with,” she tells him softly, “so it should be no bother to you.” A kiss to his cheek. His throat. Her fingers feel delicious, sleek and familiar with oil. “You will tell me if there is a problem though, is that clear?” At his nod she smiles. “After all, I always take care of my darling boy, now don’t I?” </p><p>“Yes,” he mutters raggedly. “Yes, you do.” </p><p>And he drops his head. Leans more fully forward. Well trained as he is, Mycroft can feel the muscles in his arse unclenching, opening up for her as she slips one slick, oil-soaked finger between his arse cheeks and gently skims his rim's outer edge. Without his consciously thinking on it Mycroft shifts his weight so that he’s leaning on one elbow, the other sliding down his chest, his belly, to once again stroke his cock. <em> He feels so deliciously lewd with his arse in the air and his wife's fingers teasing him. </em>He bites his lip and Anthea kisses his shoulders. His throat. Her free hand twists sharply at his left nipple and he lets out a helpless gasp of pleasure. </p><p>“Do you want it?” she asks. </p><p>A smack to his arse, hard and sharp. He can only nod helplessly. </p><p>The phallus is scraping against the flesh of his thigh. </p><p>“Please,” he mumbles. “Please darling…”</p><p>He’s not sure how much more of this he can take and piteously- desperately- he says so. </p><p>“Then spread yourself for me,” she tells him. “Prepare yourself for me.” </p><p>And again she smacks his arse. Again the pain of it tingles. Her finger slides inside him and Mycroft moves against her hand. Fucks himself upon it as she grabs his hair, presses his face down onto the wood of the dressing table. Her free palm she holds flat against his cheek as she works another finger inside him. </p><p>
  <em> It feels so deliciously lewd.  </em>
</p><p>He moans at the feel of it, the fullness of it, babbling with pleasure and pleading, his own hand still desperately working his cock- </p><p>“None of that,” she snarls and takes his hand away. Presses it roughly against the dressing table beside his head. “Bite that fist if you have to,” she tells him, “But keep it away from your cock… ” </p><p>From the corner of his eye he sees her take the bottle of oil and raise it high. Dribble yet more slick, slippery oil between the cheeks of his arse then onto the phallus. He whimpers as she removes her fingers from him, as she slides the bulbous head of her new toy against his tight, eager hole- </p><p>“Say please,” she whispers, her voice like a devil’s. </p><p>“Please,” he whimpers, “oh please, wife, please!”</p><p>His cock is fucking <em> aching.  </em></p><p>At the second please the phallus slips inside him. A fraction, then an inch. Then another and another. He moans and keeps on moaning: Anthea is going slowly, carefully, he knows this. Her rhythm is gentle. Exploratory. Tender. Mycroft presses back against her slightly and he hears her gasp- </p><p>“Fuck,” she mutters, nipping at his neck. “Fuck that’s good,” and she presses more fiercely inside him. She puts a hand at his hip to steady her movements. To pull him close. </p><p>Mycroft drops his head to his hands, squeezes his eyes shut as she fills him. Another stroke, and another, and then she’s in him up to the hilt. </p><p>She pulls out almost all the way and he whimpers in protest; with a sharp thrust she fills him again and all he can do is whine and swear. She sets a harsh, steady pace, her thrusting into him, him thrusting back against her and within minutes they’re panting. Breathless. Out of control and ecstatic. Flesh slaps against flesh, leather creaks with abandon. Mycroft braces himself fully on his elbows and gives himself over to bliss. Head bowed. Arse filled. </p><p>
  <em> He doesn’t think he’s ever felt so thoroughly fucked before. </em>
</p><p>It lasts for minutes, or maybe hours. He grunts and moans, begs his wife not to stop. Eventually there's a hiss of pleasure, a loss of control. He lets out a strangled, desperate yell that might have been Anthea's name, that might have been a prayer or a curse. And then he’s coming, coming over himself, his flesh spattered with white as Anthea continues to fuck him. She bites his shoulder, presses into him one more desperate time. When she comes it’s with a scream every bit as desperate as his is, a low sweet thing that Mycroft feels through every inch of his skin. </p><hr/><p>When next he is really conscious she’s pulled the phallus out, has wrapped her arms around him. </p><p>Mycroft turns in her embrace and brings her into his lap. Holds her close and tight as he kisses her through the lingering aftershocks of her climax and of his. </p><p>When neither of them are trembling any longer- and when both of them appear to have recovered- he strips her bare. Removes every single jewel and bauble and treasure from her that isn’t something he bought her. It leaves her naked, save for her wedding ring and this he brings to his lips. This he kisses. He keeps his eyes on hers the entire time. And then, with infinite care he kisses and nips his way down her body. He suckles her and licks her and brings her to climax again with his tongue. Again with his fingers. <em>It feels like heaven.</em> Kissing and caressing, they writhe together in bed. Kissing and caressing, they make love through the night and into the sunlit morn. </p><p>“I love you,” Anthea murmurs in his ear. </p><p>“I love you too,” Mycroft tells her. </p><p>When they can finally, finally do no more she puts her head head against his chest and locks her arm possessively around him.</p><p>She curls into his body, warm and sated, and together they finally rest. </p><hr/><p>The servants don’t return for another two days- it’s a holiday, according to Anthea.</p><p>Nether she nor Mycroft notice though- they’re far too busy for that. </p><p> </p>
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